


He Dances

by Illinia



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dancing, Dancing in the Rain, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illinia/pseuds/Illinia
Summary: Not many people know, but Porthos can dance.





	1. In the Rain

He dances. Sometimes, no more than a quick chassé when vacuuming, sometimes moving with a pretty girl in a dingy club in a way that would have made Swayze blush. Not many people know, or assume, but he can dance. More to the point, he would do it anyway, even if couldn’t. Porthos dances and it feels like a victory, every time.

This is new, though. Feeling the difference in the way the ground resists his feet; the constant sensation across the bared skin of his torso when he turns. Porthos has never danced in the rain before. There were times in his life that rainfall was not something to be celebrated. This, then, is the greatest victory of all. 

He’s grinning, probably looks somewhere near to crazy, but he knows he is safe from onlookers. There’s CCTV, but as site foreman, he’s generally the only one to ever see that. The rain falls with sporadic pattering noises and it is like jazz to Porthos’ ears and he imagines moving his hips to husky brass. His body responds to the music in his head and also to his elation, to the thrill of moving like this over the ground where by day he works, sweats and swears with twenty other men. Twenty men who respond to Porthos’ accent, to his muscles, simply and easily, like they know who he is. 

He vaguely picks up a noise behind him and wonders if his nocturnal gambolling is about to be witnessed by a prowling cat or fox. He likes the idea and spins, his boots kicking up soggy gravel in his wake. 

“Oh.”

Cats don’t exclaim, but there is a feline aspect to the figure leaning against the side of the makeshift site office. Porthos freezes, definitely looks the idiot for a second, but he quickly pulls his arms in loose to his side; deceptively casual. There is no obvious alarm on the face of the man opposite him either, in fact Porthos feels the object of calm, even appreciative, scrutiny.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the interloper says with an easy smile.

Porthos snorts and takes a warning step closer. Still, the man shows no uncertainty. Porthos tries to assess the situation. His potential adversary displays no signs of aggression, but is confident and relaxed, which Porthos knows could signify a worse threat. 

“How’d you get in here?” There are good fences all around, and cameras; Porthos oversaw the set-up of them.

Glancing up and to his left, where nearby buildings overshadow one corner of the site, the man brings his finger up and then down again, whistling. Porthos looks and considers that he could do it himself if pushed: clear the fence by jumping from one of the adjacent roofs. Not the nicest landing though, he imagines. He shakes his head. “You’re still trespassing, mate.”

“Aren’t you?” 

“No, actually.” 

“You’re a licensed dancer then?” This is asked with a grin, peppered with both mockery and admiration. Porthos is being teased, he realises, on his own territory.

“Foreman by day, dancer by night.” 

“But with no audience? That seems a shame.”

“Not for me.” Porthos stalks over and switches on one of the small floodlights they use when behind on work in the winter evenings. It cuts an angle across the trespasser’s face, causing him to squint for a second or two. It also confirms Porthos’ growing suspicion that his unlooked-for spectator is conspicuously handsome. He crosses the remaining distance between them and stares impassively. He is taller and broader than the other man, whose back is against the wall of the office. He also has the surety of standing on familiar ground. Still, the man smiles at him, but it is a lighter thing, with the smallest hint of respectful trepidation. 

“Time to go,” Porthos states firmly.

The man nods, yet says, “Perhaps you’d rather a dance partner, than an audience.”

Porthos has to blink a couple of times to let the audacity truly sink into his consciousness. He barks out a laugh and looks away. When he looks back, soft brown eyes linger a moment too long on his lips. Porthos hides his surprise and cannot tell if the other is aware of his tell. In another time and place, Porthos would be so happily flattered. He shakes his head.

“At least tell me what the music was. Something jazzy I was imagining.” 

“I guess.”

“Quite uptempo, your moves were almost Latin, but I don’t think there was a rumba in your head.”

“Nah,” Porthos agrees, suddenly, almost painfully, intrigued. Or perhaps just allowing himself to accept that he has been intrigued all along. “I prefer something a bit more rugged, brassy. A touch of the blues to it.”

He gets a nod and the man is not leaning casually anymore, his back is straight and it has brought him a dangerous inch closer to Porthos. He makes a small sound, as if he is tasting Porthos’ music. “A little bit of art and a whole lot of heart,” he whispers with his eyes closed. 

“Yeah,” Porthos swallows, “yeah,” and as the man’s hips start to sway, Porthos’ hands reach out and anchor themselves on his body, instinctively beginning to direct the motion. The feeling of pulling the man’s body into his own, however, the firm press of the other’s body against his, brings him back to himself. It is one thing to appreciate the little thrill of his own moonlit dance, but if anyone else looks at the camera footage at any point, being seen dancing, half naked, with another man would probably be pushing his luck. 

His fingertips regretfully press into the slightly damp fabric of the man’s t-shirt to push him back. As he does so, the man whispers _no_ twice and casts a stricken look up at Porthos. Something in Porthos’ stomach flutters a little. He can’t lie to himself, he doesn’t want to see desperation on this man’s face. He hesitates a moment and the man before him, once so confident, doesn’t meet his gaze. So Porthos keeps a set of fingers anchored in the other’s clothes as he moves over to switch the floodlight off. 

Lit by moonlight and distant streetlights again, the man’s features glow starkly in the darkness and the air surrounding them seems to drop in temperature. A shiver vibrates against his fingertips and he pulls the other man in tight, moving his hand to his lower back. It is intimate, but mostly hidden by the otherness of night, and it feels natural that when Porthos speaks, his jaw brushes against tendrils of the other’s hair that have curled in the rain. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Aramis,” the other replies, and Porthos cannot help but smile to hear a name almost as unusual as his own.

“I’m Porthos,” he mumbles in reply.

“Hello,” the greeting is said with a smile that makes Aramis’ eyes crinkle, banishing any hint of coldness, of artifice, that Porthos might have seen on his face before.

The dance is slow. Whoever’s music they are moving to, it is not the music that had Porthos twisting before, flinging raindrops from his arms. Aramis’ hands are warm on the rain-cooled skin of Porthos’ back and Porthos’ heart is beating too fast. He was unsure who was leading whom at first, but now he feels clearly how Aramis’ body flows in response to Porthos’ movements. A grin keeps pulling at his lips, at odds with the tempo of the dance, and Porthos wonders if Aramis can sense it, with his cheek close to Porthos’, his eyes closed. He doesn’t mind. It is what the night was supposed to be about, reveling in his own happiness. 

He whirls them suddenly and Aramis lets out a surprised breath but keeps with him. Porthos thinks it cannot be the first time he has been led by a man, but he doesn’t dwell on the thought. Instead, he spins them twice in quick succession, until Aramis is laughing, a little breathless. He is sure footed, despite being unused to the uneven ground of the site as Porthos is. Porthos wonders when the rain stopped. He moves a hand to the nape of Aramis’ neck, finding the thicker waves of his hair there. It affects the posture but Aramis responds by lightly kneading the powerful muscles running down Porthos’ back, and Porthos gives up the ballroom pretense, letting a whisper of a groan escape his lips. 

Porthos fights the desire. He has never let himself be the kind of man that uses a dance as an excuse to grind, to grope. He finds their previous rhythm again and Aramis seems content, offering no comment. There is, however, a new frisson of mutually held and understood attraction running through both their bodies, Porthos feels confident of it. He is spinning them again, enough so that if he glances to the side their surroundings are nothing more than a dim blur, only Aramis in his arms is in perfect focus. He doesn’t stop until the side of one of his feet meets the edge of the step up to the office and he has to still them to prevent Aramis tripping. 

“Where did you learn to do this?” Aramis asks, not moving away from Porthos’ light hold.

Porthos shrugs, a habitual action. “A few helpful friends. Knowing the right people, the rights clubs. Years ago now. Why? Can’t see me in ballroom classes?”

“Not exactly.”

“What about you then?” Porthos asks.

“I’ve always been a fan of anything that keeps me moving. Football, dancing,” he trails off suggestively, then continues more soberly, “these days, it’s more about the…” He gestures to the roofs again. 

“Parkour?” Porthos guesses.

Aramis hums a little in assent. “Something like that.”

“It’s just, something’s bugging me,” says Porthos.

“Oh?” Porthos earns himself a coyly raised eyebrow.

“You jumped in ‘ere. How were you plannin’ on getting out?” 

“I thought I would ask the foreman to escort me.” The flirty smile comes out again, an expression that looks very comfortable on Aramis’ face.

“’Course you did,” Porthos mutters, shaking his head fondly at the beautiful strangeness of the situation; of Aramis. Then he shivers, the lack of motion letting his bare skin register the coolness of the night air. 

Aramis gently rubs his upper arms. “Time to go,” he says. 

A question falters before it gets to Porthos’ lips and instead he nods. “I’ve got to lock up and stuff.”

Aramis nods and steps away, and of course Porthos needs him to, but he has to hide a frown, all the same. He pulls his discarded shirt back on and doggedly goes through the routine of securing the site, half expecting to find at the end that Aramis has disappeared, scaling a fence when Porthos’ back is turned. Yet Aramis is right behind him when he does turn, patient and apparently calm, dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the remaining lights.

Porthos shoves his hands in his pockets as they start walking, unasked questions clogging up his throat but not quite stripping the smile from his eyes. He knows what he wants to do. He wants to take Aramis back to his little flat, play some of Ella Fitzgerald’s most sultry numbers and find out if he can keep to the rhythm with his eyes looking straight into Aramis’. He wants to lie him down on the powder blue comforter on his bed and watch every flex of bared muscle as he dances under Porthos’ attention. 

He breathes in the sobering air deeply. He has no idea where Aramis lives; no idea if he would consider bringing Porthos there. All he really knows about Aramis, assuming even that is true, is that he is a man who enjoys running around cities at night, flaunting boundaries as casually as an urban fox. And he dances like he can hear Porthos’ own music. 

Porthos shivers. Maybe Aramis has a place where he takes his would be lovers, where he pleasures them in full view of the dispassionate eyes of CCTV. Porthos stops and takes hold of Aramis’ elbow. He knows what kind of man he is. 

“Where are we goin’?”

Aramis shrugs and looks away, clearly discomforted. The departure of his charm is more reassuring than anything else to Porthos. He seems to be debating something internally. A few seconds pass and he shrugs again and laughs.

“I have a confession to make.” He hesitates, perhaps waiting for that to sink in. Porthos braces himself as Aramis continues, “I was feeling rather… restless earlier. I just wanted to run and clear my head and, to be entirely honest, I am not one hundred percent sure of where we are.”

It is Porthos’ turn to laugh out loud, as much in relief as amusement. “What exactly would you have done if you hadn’t found some idiot dancing on ‘is own in the middle of a building site?”

With a roll of his eyes, Aramis pats a zipped pocket in his trousers. “I do have my phone, like all good modern itinerants.”

“Bet it’s out of battery.”

“It is not,” he removes it and checks, “it is only almost out of battery.”

“Right then,” says Porthos, more decisively than he feels, “my place is a twenty minute walk. There’s one of them s’pposedly American diners on the way that’ll still be open, if you want to grab something to eat. ‘S a good place as any to wait for a cab too, if you want.”

Let them have an out. He can’t remember who told him that, years ago, when his muscles were developing as quickly as his wits. Let them have an out and if they still stay, they really want to stay. 

Aramis starts walking and looks back until Porthos is with him, stride for stride. “Do they have a jukebox at this faux diner?”

“Nah. I mean, they do, but it’s always busted.”

“Then I can make do without the pitstop, if you can.”

The calmness, what Porthos had taken for overconfidence earlier, has resettled over Aramis. Porthos finds it so attractive. He has never known anybody to be so open and distant, all at once. He quickens his stride, eagerness firing his muscles, then checks himself. He always has to check his pace, walking with somone, except – except Aramis is keeping with him, toe to toe.


	2. Lust and Grief

Porthos gets a little nervous again, just as he holds the door of his apartment building open for Aramis to step through. Aramis makes no comment that indicates whether it seems more or less salubrious than his own abode, and Porthos is not surprised, transcending such small talk seems to be one of Aramis’ talents. It gives him a little confidence, the feeling that Aramis’ attention is on Porthos, not the external, illusory markers of his life. It is only a short walk to his door. He has always been comfortable with the ground floor, not being bothered by footsteps and mysterious bangs above him, and content to keep his own quick-footedness known only to himself. 

He flicks a couple of lamps on and Aramis gives the room a cursory glance, then refocuses on Porthos and smiles. Porthos’ lower stomach tenses at the contrast between the slightly wolfish flash of white teeth against the manicured facial hair. He takes a restorative moment to kick his shoes off and Aramis mirrors him. 

“Do you want a drink?”

Aramis considers. “Water, if I’m honest, though I know that’s not what you meant.”

Porthos shrugs and pours a glass for each of them. True to his word, Aramis drains most of his quickly and puts the glass down on the worktop. He looks at Porthos, eyes lingering on his face, long enough for Porthos to wonder if he is going to ask about the scar. 

“Porthos, you,” he starts, but falters and turns his body away, placing both hands on the worktop and leaning his weight into it as if suddenly weary. He shakes his head.

Porthos’ body moves quicker than his puzzled brain. He stops behind Aramis and puts a hand on his shoulder. “What?” 

Aramis shakes his head again, but turns to give Porthos a small smile. He twists fully, takes Porthos’ dislodged hand in his own, and presses his lips gently against Porthos’. He pulls back, just an inch or so, and meets Porthos’ gaze calmly. 

“Alright?” Porthos gets out, voice gruffer than usual.

“Oh yes,” Aramis replies, the twinkle back in his eyes. Porthos hesitates a moment longer, mind caught on that flash of strange distress that had Aramis curving into the worktop, but there is not even an echo of it under Aramis’expression. His shoulders loosen and he cups Aramis’ cheek, thumbtip brushing against the crescent of soft skin under his eye. He initiates the second kiss and this one deepens quickly. They break after only a few moments, but just to grin at each other, then press lips together again. Porthos licks into Aramis’ mouth and hears gutsy, lust drenched brass in his head, which starts to swim. He catches his breath between small nips to Aramis’ jawbone, then Aramis takes his face between both of his hands, and lightly scratches his fingernails down to the heaving pulse in Porthos’ neck. 

“Dance with me,” he whispers.

Porthos nods and pulls Aramis’ body into his. They both let out a sound at the contact and Porthos guides them out of the small kitchen, marvelling at his own ability to avoid door frames and furniture. 

They move so smoothly that Porthos loses track of who is leading whom, until he realises that his intentions are being communicated through the shifting pressure of his palm against Aramis’ hip. A warmth that is not just physical desire rushes through him. He grasps hold of the feeling that he has waited so long to have, to move with someone who responds so naturally to his rhythm. He pulls Aramis in tighter and their movements morph into the kind of dance that has only one objective. There is no possibility of hiding, now, how his body is responding, but there is no tension in Aramis’ back and his body is answering in kind. 

Porthos moans, his eyes closing for a second and his spatial awareness faltering at the same time. Fortunately it is his own body that bumps against the jamb of his bedroom door, but it is Aramis’ hands that keep him there, warm pressure against his waist as Aramis’ teeth bite down at the muscles in Porthos’ neck. They don’t lose the rhythm somehow, Aramis using it now to angle his hips into Porthos’ and back, just a little, before pressing in again, each motion matched with a firm nip of his teeth. 

“Fuck,” Portos breathes out shakily. His fantasies of earlier come back in strong technicolour and take control of his hands, one arm breaking Aramis’ rhythm by pulling him snug against Porthos’ side, the other reaching out to fumble the door open.

He has a second of sudden concern about whether the bedroom is too much of a presumption, or too sedate for Aramis’ tastes, before Aramis leads them both into the room, stopping by the foot of the bed to kiss Porthos again. His hands slip down Porthos’ body and cup his arousal. Porthos’ hips twitch forward and he groans. Aramis makes quick work of button and fly, jeans and underwear, fortunately before Porthos is reduced to begging him, and he groans again at the sudden relief of liberation. He is relieved enough not to tense in expectation of the frequent comment about his size, but still his soul feels lighter when it doesn’t come, Aramis’ fingertips merely lightly massaging as his tongue chases Porthos’ once more. 

He remembers that image of Aramis and the blue comforter again and mutters, “come ‘ere.” He pulls Aramis’ hand away, ignoring his body’s twinge of reluctance, and braces his body to pivot, dipping Aramis down to the bed. 

His hair splays out as he lands, looking up at Porthos with what Porthos thinks, hopes, is a mix of surprise and appreciation playing across his face. He’s so beautiful that he seems untouchable, but then he reaches out, beckoning for Porthos to come down to him. Porthos has zero desire to tease and he bends swiftly, bracing his weight above Aramis’ to enjoy another kiss. He then shifts down to kneel at the foot of the bed so he can undo Aramis’ trousers. Aramis gratefully lifts his hips and Porthos divests him of them fully. Aramis moans in appreciation, his head falling back against the covers, and Porthos runs his hands up Aramis’ calves to his knees. There are a few drops of moisture darkening the burgundy of Aramis’ boxers as the tip of his cock strains against the fabric. Porthos’ throat goes dry and he has to swallow twice. 

Aramis sits up to fling his t-shirt off and Porthos drinks the sight of him in, until Aramis beckons him again. “Let me feel you.”

“Yeah, god yeah.” Before he rises, Porthos runs his hands up Aramis’ thighs and dips his fingertips under the waistband of his boxers. Aramis’ breath hitches and he squirms a little, preventing Porthos from pulling them off. He laughs at himself and leans up to help Porthos take them off and their hands then pull at Porthos’ shirt until it lands crumpled somewhere on the floor. 

“Come here,” Aramis says, echoing Porthos’ words of moments earlier and Porthos obliges and their bodies meet. Aramis’ hands trace the curves of the muscles of Porthos’ back and press down. “All of you.”

Porthos contemplates it for a moment but does let himself relax until nearly all of his weight is on Aramis. Aramis arches into it, the movement mostly encumbered so it is only the bow of his neck that Porthos sees; feels, as he flattens his tongue against the quivering adam’s apple. He laves at the enticing depression just under Aramis’ jaw as some of the tension recedes from Aramis’ body. Aramis moans, then gives a short laugh. 

“You do realise we’re still in our socks.”

Porthos chuckles, “I don’t mind if you don’t.” Contrary to his words, however, he half rises and stretches a long arm down to rectify the situation. Aramis’ right leg twitches as Porthos’ fingertips brush over the bared sole of his foot. They smile and Porthos locks the knowledge of Aramis’ ticklishness away for a later that is unlikely to ever come. He forces himself to focus wholly on the present: Aramis’ bared, expectant beauty before him; the call to dance. 

He rocks his hips experimentally and they share a synchronised moan. Aramis draws one of his legs up, pressing the soft skin of his inner thigh against Porthos’ hip, encouraging Porthos to roll his hips even more forcefully. Porthos’ breath starts coming in a panting rhythm and he braces himself on one arm, running the other up and down the appealing angles of Aramis’ bent leg and curving his hand possessively around one of Aramis’ buttocks. 

“Porthos,” Aramis breathes out, turns his head to the side and closes his eyes.

“Yeah?” Porthos gets out, unsure whether Aramis requires a response.

Aramis opens his eyes and pulls Porthos’ face down to his. He smiles widely, scanning all over Porthos’ features, looking into his eyes. “Porthos,” he repeats, letting the name linger on his lips until Porthos kisses it away, “there is nothing to say, just… you.” 

Again, Porthos feels the shudder of something else, and it is his turn to close his eyes and bare his throat as Aramis’ fingers trail down his cheek, fingertips brushing against his lips. He flicks his tongue against the responsive, sensitive skin, circling with the pointed tip of his tongue. He is rewarded with an audible stutter in Aramis’ breathing and a surprised huff of laughter. He takes two fingers into the warmth of his mouth and slides his tongue under them, around them. He lets himself savour the wantoness of the action with his eyes still closed, then opens them to see Aramis’ own are dark with lust, eyes fixed on the motion of Porthos’ mouth. 

Porthos wants to look forever, but their hips start working to a new time. A muscle in his arm starts protesting and, as if he is aware as soon as Porthos is, Aramis pushes at Porthos’ hip with his knee and they roll on to their sides. Aramis inserts a leg between Porthos’, bringing them closer together. He slides a hand down Porthos’ side as Porthos gets a hand between their bodies and curves it around their pulsing cocks, spreading the fluid. They both smile boyishly as they rock up into Porthos’ grip, enjoying the relief of the minimised friction. Porthos knows he is getting so close that his thoughts are lapsing, sound and motion taking over, and Aramis is with him, the gorgeous chocolate of his irises almost vanished. He wants more though, needs more of Aramis because this night might be all Porthos gets.

He moves quickly, easily summoning his strength, and Aramis can only gasp out as Porthos rises and shifts Aramis’ body up the bed; only groan loudly when Porthos suddenly takes his cock into his mouth. A quiet voice in the back of Porthos’ head is trying to tell him that he should have warned Aramis, asked for permission, but the voice is swiftly silenced as all of Porthos’ attention hones in on Aramis’ taste and the tiny lurches his hips make under Porthos’ hands. Aramis’ hands find his head, but they massage more than apply pressure and a tingling pleasure rushes down Porthos’ spine. He knows if he got a hand on himself, he would come, but he maintains his grip on Aramis’ hips and changes angle, coaxing the head of Aramis’ cock into his throat. Aramis writhes a little, moans Porthos’ name, then something else which Porthos thinks he does not hear, but then realises Aramis is vocalising his pleasure, his desperation, in another language. He moans himself and it makes Aramis yell. Porthos moves one hand and rolls Aramis’ balls, and feels the warning of Aramis’ body before Aramis switches back to English to tell him that he is about to –

Aramis’ release floods across his tongue, Porthos just having had time to back off a little. He controls himself and swallows, his senses full of Aramis. He lets Aramis slip from his mouth, but remains bowed. He relishes. Aramis’ fingertips stroke across his cheekbone and jawline. Porthos feels them tremble. He opens his eyes slowly, his own need still distant, caught up as he is in his lover’s afterglow. Aramis gifts him with a soft smile and beckons for Porthos to lie beside him. 

Porthos’ head feels very heavy as it meets the pillow. Aramis’ eyes trail down his body and his fingers follow, his touch distinctly firmer than before. Porthos’ stomach muscles clench under his touch and Aramis gives him a more sly smile. 

“What do you want?” he asks.

Porthos is relaxed enough that he does not stop himself laughing abruptly. “I’m so close I’m gonna come as soon as you touch me.”

Aramis raises an eyebrow. There is a hint of something almost unsettling in his gaze. It is not darkness, Porthos feels, just a glint with enough of an edge to it that liquid warmth coils in his belly in response. It is still there when Aramis holds his gaze, brings his hand to his mouth, and licks his palm obscenely. 

The first touch is firm, enclosing Porthos’ cock confidently. Porthos breathes out, relieved. Anything less would have been torturous. He moans and starts to move more than his hips, almost his whole lower body, into the grip. Aramis moves his hand quickly too, the hard ridge of his hand meeting the sensitive skin at the base of Porthos’ cock again and again, almost brutally, and Porthos’ head is filled with such an intoxicating drumbeat that he does not hear the primal noises escaping his lips. When he comes, there is a split second of actual pain, before the pleasure washes everything away. The drums fade and he comes back to the sound of his name manifested in Aramis’ quiet, husky voice. As soon as the first iota of his strength returns, he pulls Aramis towards him for a fierce kiss. He keeps his eyes open, as does Aramis. They hold each other’s gaze and Porthos feels winded by more than just the kiss. He needs to pull back, really, but he deepens the kiss, tongue urgently pressing against Aramis’ as if they were both still on the cusp of orgasm. 

It is Aramis who breaks the kiss, leaning back to take in deep breaths but interspersing them with soft touches of lips against Porthos’ cheek; the corners of his eyes. Porthos flexes his fingers. They are stiff with how they have been pressing into the flesh of Aramis’ shoulders; too tightly. The thought makes him look for Aramis’ hand, the one not planted securely at his waist. It rests on the sheet between them, protectively curled around what must be Porthos’ release. Porthos quirks a smile down at it and Aramis shrugs helplessly, endearingly, in response. Porthos twists round to locate a suitably man sized tissue and feels a strange thrill as he coaxes Aramis’ fingers to uncurl with his own, and cleans his palm. Aramis lets his head fall to the pillow and just watches. As they catch their breath, the action seems more intimate than those that went before. Porthos finishes and discards the tissue on the bedside table. He resettles on his side, facing Aramis’ dark, fathomless eyes, and struggles to swallow easily. Aramis hasn’t moved his hand and Porthos, compelled by something stronger than his own returning misgivings, bends to trace the tip of his tongue over the strongest lines on Aramis’ palm. 

He contents himself with more than a few sweeps across the pliant flesh, a couple of shudders running through Aramis’ hand down to the back of Porthos’ throat. 

He unbends and loses his breath in one moment. Aramis’ expression has shattered open and is at once awed and bereft. As before in the kitchen though, the moment melts away before Porthos can properly process it, and something gentle is rekindled in Aramis’ eyes as he buries his fingers in the tight curls of Porthos’ hair. He shifts his body so he can press his lips, closed and gentle, to Porthos’ and Porthos knows even as he relaxes into it that it is a goodbye kiss. 

The moment neither lingers, but nor is it abrupt, as Aramis turns his back to Porthos and gracefully rises from the bed. He turns and gives Porthos, lying prone and incapacitated, a small smile. He does not look directly at him again as he dresses. 

Porthos knows he should move. Part of him is actually desperate to, yet a tight band has enclosed his chest. He does not know what to do and the feeling , once common many years ago, now seems cripplingly unfamiliar. 

“You don’t know where you’re going.” The words tumble from his lips as soon as the thought is formed. 

Aramis looks confused for a second and rakes a hand through his hair. At least, he is looking at Porthos again. The confusion clears and he shakes his head. “I’ll find my way, I always do.”

The strange paralysis lifts and Porthos gets up, quickly pulling a nearby pair of shorts on. He takes a few steps forward, skirting the foot of the bed, but stops. Aramis hasn’t moved but Porthos’ instincts tell him clearly that if he moves nearer, Aramis will just back off. He takes a deep breath and lets anything that could be construed as aggression fall from his posture.

“Porthos…” The tone of his voice is not what Porthos expects to hear. It is fond, fond and a little sad. “Don’t do that.”

Porthos frowns. “Do what?” he asks, voice feeling small and young and tight in his throat. 

Aramis sighs and looks to the door, then back at Porthos. Porthos watches a battle play out in him, knowing he can’t intercede. He feels something like victory, though, when Aramis moves towards him instead of the door. Aramis stands before him and brings his hands up to Porthos’ shoulders. He looks at his hands, rather than Porthos, as he speaks. “Don’t lock yourself up. When I saw you in that building site, in the rain, dancing over mud and gravel…” He trails off, but looks up at Porthos finally, and Porthos nods, knowing a little of what Aramis means. Aramis’ hands stroke soothingly over his shoulders. “I need to go now.”

Porthos nods, knowing sincerity when he hears it.

Aramis moves smoothly through the small flat and Porthos follows him. A shard of emotion a little too close to grief pricks at his belly as Aramis opens the front door. It should rankle, but all Porthos can think is, that’s it. He’s just going to go. 

Again, Aramis challenges his expectations. He turns and, ever so gently, kisses Porthos on the cheek. 

The door has almost closed behind Aramis before another thought comes to Porthos. “S’pose you know where I live now.”

All he hears in response is the click of the door closing, but every instinct that has pulled Porthos through pain, through his own pessimism and desperate hopes to where he stands now, tells him that Aramis has heard.


End file.
